going to be gone
by Tessie13
Summary: Then: She smiled, and he smiled back, because they were both happy; happy because they found one another, had one another, to be with one another. / Now: It's never easy, leaving the one you love behind. He finds it easier not to even say goodbye, because she'll never leave him, not really — Austin/Ally
1. when she left

.

.

.

"_imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia. you spend your whole life stuck in the labyrinth, thinking about how you'll escape it one day, and how awesome it will be, and imagining that future keep you going, but you never do it. you just use the future to escape the present." _

―looking for alaska by john green

.

.

_**now**_

.

.

* * *

.

.

Okay. Okay._ Okay_; such an annoying, toneless and taunting word that played across so many people's lips. _No_, as impossible as it may seem, she was not _okay_ with her current situation. She was not okay, period.

It was funny, because she knew that if she had never met him―all those years ago, with him bragging to her on the swing set that he could soar higher than her, them later sharing a juice box as she played him all the chords she knew on the piano, thus creating their best friendship―she would be on a one way trip to her dream. Only, for the past eleven years, her dream was for him to be next to her as they signed their very first recording contract to their very first record label―and all she was right now was alone.

Staring out the window blankly, she felt the tears prickling again as the memory of herself telling him the news flooded back in, his words bouncing around hauntingly in her mind. They had made a pact when they first set out to achieve their dreams to always put the others best interest ahead of their own, to support each other through thick and thin, when the waters got too rough or when the tide didn't even come in. They had done a great job honoring it, too―until he flipped the sound board over, ripped out literally every single song she had ever written out of her leather bond journal, and pelted her with the crumpled up pieces of paper. He screamed nonsense words and hurtful comments at her, his own eyes glassy with tears that were never to be spilt over.

She realized―and was sick to her stomach with guilt over―that keeping that big of a secret for that long of a time was incriminating. They had always allowed each other secrets―they needed something to be selfish with, after all, and some things were just better to only know for yourself. Only one as life changing and major was horrible to keep from someone you were closer than close with; but how was she to go about telling him? No matter what time she had told him, he would've still reacted the same way. This was not such a simple matter that she could walk up to him and state―oh no, it was meant to be told with soft, whispering voices and gentle, soothing hands.

She remembered how his face fell from the easy going grin once she had told him that they needed to talk, and asked if they could spend the night in the practice room instead of their usual crashing on the futon in her room. She played him a few songs before working up enough nerve to tell him about the successful demo, and how―as long as he wasn't completely and utterly opposed to it―in three days time, she would be on her way to California to sign herself as a single performer to the second biggest label in all of Hollywood. She had expected a quick passing moment of silence before he would spin her around in a hug, claiming how awesome it was that she was getting this opportunity and that he could never hold her back from this. They would pull out all those old bucket lists they had created and finish all the events they had never accomplished―like write three songs in one short hour, or go bike riding all the way to the edge of the city and back before sundown, or even spend a night out in the woods with nothing but a canteen of water and a match. They would support her, just like they had always promised too. Only, she had never expected him to become rigid, go haywire, and then just leave her in a pool of tears as he slammed both the practice and front door.

She bit down hard on her lip as a voice came over the speaker, saying to latch their seatbelts due to an upcoming patch of turbulence. It hurt beyond humanly possible how literally anything and everything reminded her of him, but this, this was fate throwing such a horribly painful and ironic coincidence at her―her very first flight, ever, was with Austin and they had to sit through two straight hours of bumps, dips, and dives. He had held her hand even when she turned his knuckles white from her excruciatingly tight grip, but this time around, she didn't exactly feel like holding the bleach blond, brown eyed middle aged woman's hand that sat next to her. She had flown in first class only once before, on a flight with him to one of his first major concert―they had expected to come back just to pack again, considering that the stadium in Nashville that had booked him was going to be crawling with producers, but none of them were looking to sign a partnership deal, and Austin had refused to do anything less―and had been in love with the simple elegance and warm cookies that the flight attendants handed out. This time around, though, the chocolate chip cookies seemed to dry and the seats too lumpy. Nothing ever seemed as good unless Austin was there to share it with her.

More tears prickled in the back of her eyes as she thought of the fact that Austin had failed to show up to both her going away party―Trish, her best girl friend since Austin and herself brought her into their group in sixth grade, shortly after they had inducted Dez, seemed to use any excuse to throw a party―and her actually leaving. She had called, texted, iMessaged, twitted, and emailed the time she was leaving and even added the fact that if he didn't want her to go she would stay. She had expected him to wake her up with a stack of his infamous apple‐cinnamon pancakes and a kiss on the check, like every normal morning for the past three years. He would apologize for his inappropriate behavior from the other night, and all she would do is laugh as she pulled on one of the many sweatshirts he had given her to wear. Only, when the morning sun rolled around, her room was still empty―and not because the walls, dresser, closet, and desk were completely cleared of all her personal belongings. He hadn't even cared enough to say goodbye to her―she had to assume that all those times that he said he loved her and would stick by her, he was just lying through his teeth.

A sudden squeal erupting from behind her, her ears perked high in the air as her head snapped around to the source of the sound. A petite girl, no older than ten, with wide chocolate orbs stared up at her with a pen and napkin occupying both of her miniature looking hands. An older business woman with the same dark simpering eyes stood behind her clad in a powder blue slim fitting jacket and kaki colored trousers.

"Are you the real Ally Dawson?" the littler and younger of the two piped up, moving away from the hand her mother protectively rested on the small of her back.

Ally blinked twice as she comprehended the situation that was playing out in front of her―yes, she had her own website, was credited many times on Austin's, and had about two dozen music videos on the internet, but she wasn't exactly known in the same way Austin was―before pointing idiotically at herself. "Do you mean me?" she asked in a hollow and dumb voice, confusion playing clearly across her face as her eye brows inched closer and closer together.

Face palming as she giggled, the child suddenly rushed forward and wrapped her thin and frail arms around Ally's neck. Caught off guard, the older of the two slowly snaked her own arms around the blonde haired girl, mouth slightly gapping as she closed her eyes and bit back the memories bursting at the seams. It was hard to keep your heart under control when literally everything could remind you of a person.

"I am your biggest fan in the world, Ally!" the exuberant child said rather loudly into her ear, squeezing tighter and earning them a few quizzed looks from passengers. Ally choked on her swallow, her eyes becoming glassy with the tears she was longer allowed to let freely poor over. She felt the familiar flash of a camera behind her tightly closed eyelids, and knew that whatever fan base she had on the plane with her was now beginning to discover her presence. All she was able to process was the fact that no one had ever told her that they were her biggest fan besides Austin. He liked to write it all over her books for school, in her journal when she actually let it out of her sight resulting in him stealing it from her, on the comment section of her videos, and he often would scream it at the very top of his lungs when she had her insecure and doubting moments. Other times, during their more personal and tender times, he would make sure to get across that he loved every last detail about her in a more gentle way―sitting on the beach with their hands intertwined as she rested between his spread legs, he would lazily raise a finger and point out to the bleeding horizon before whispering down to her that it was amazing how even after a day spent having intense splash fights, sand castle battles, and ice cream throwing wars she still managed to steal away his breath with her messy beauty. Those delicate memories seemed very inappropriate placed next to all the scarred and charred recent ones.

"Can I get your autograph?" The pestering girl asked as she pulled Ally out of her trance, unweaving her arms from around her neck and sitting on Ally's lap. Opening her eyes, she let out a breathy sigh as her fingers went to trace over the single necklace she wore.

"You can have more than my autograph," she sighed out, unclasping the pendent that had her initials carved in an elegant script, a heart engraved on the back side. Taking one last look at the last piece of jewelry Austin gave her―the last piece of jewelry he will _ever _give her―she opened the younger girls hands, dropped it into her folded fingers, and then she sealed them back together as if to tell her to never let go of it. Standing up, the girl smiled widely up at her before rushing back to her mom with tears of happiness overflowing from her deep brown orbs.

"Thank you!" she threw over her shoulder as the pair made their way back to their seats, leaving Ally once again alone to her thoughts.

That was it, now―she was officially ridded of ever last piece of him. All that was left was the haunting sense of him that still lingered in her mind, but all of those times with him were starting to fade together, making it impossible to forget but even harder to remember. He was laced in whatever she did, and she was sure that nothing would ever be able to change that. Even if they had never been an official couple, even if they had never kissed, even if she would never be able to stare into those wild hazel eyes of his again―she would never be able to stop falling in love with all of his quirks and flaws. She would never stop seeing his genuine smile when she closed her eye lids. She would never be able to not hear his voice blending and harmonizing perfectly when she sang. She would never be able to forget how he was always there for her, even when he was angry or disappointed in her. She would never be able to forget him. He was a part of her now, etched into her and living underneath her skin; and the worst part is, she was never going to be able to tell him all of this. She was never going to be able to tell him how much she loved him.

.

.

* * *

.

.

He missed her even when she was right next to him, wrapped up in his arms―how was he supposed to cope with her living all the way across the country? That's just the thing―he wasn't going to. Locking himself in his room for the day so he could cry and sob by himself with no witnesses had seemed like such a promising and practical idea earlier, but he has never felt more alone.

He knew that what he had done to her must be killing her from the inside out right now―really, not saying goodbye? So much for being her best friend, Moon―but it was the only way to let her walk out of his life. If he hadn't faked his over reaction to the news―news that Lester had accidently spilled to him weeks prior, news that broke him down so thoroughly yet still made him elated and gave him that floating effect―than he would have never been able to detach himself from her, to let her fly away into her bright future that he just wasn't included in. He knew well that she deep down didn't want to go, but he knew deep down that she needed to go. He never believed in the saying that if you love something, set it free, and if it really loves you, it will come back―why in the world would it, if you put it through so much pain shoving it out the door? All that it would lead to is a classically haunting 'what if' story. Only, now, he prayed that he had always been wrong about his harsh assumption.

He was rarely afraid of anything, but when he was, she worked him carefully through it and by the time it was over, he would feel like they could get through anything as long as they kept up their actions of compassion and care. Now, however, he couldn't go to her with the impending fear of having to say goodbye to her. Eventually, after hours spent tossing and turning into the early hours of the morning, he decided that he would never even say goodbye to her. He would take so many more pictures over the last few weeks he had with her, and make sure that she knew now more than ever how much he loved her. That was especially hard, because they had always stated that they loved each other in that carefree, happy friendship way. Only now, he was telling her that he loved in the I‐can't‐live‐without‐you,‐you're‐always‐on‐my‐mind way. He had meant it that way for the past few weeks, only she would never be able to know that. He had managed not to say goodbye, though―but he regretted more than anything that the last memory he had of her was her crying with a broken heart as he screamed insensitive lies at her.

He knew that over the next few years, all he would see or hear about was her sky rocketing to the top of Hollywood, and that amazing boy that she would eventually find and fall in love with. He would always remind himself that none of those guys could ever love her exactly as much as he did―after all, he cared about her so intently he was willing to give her up so she could be with them. In his mind, that was the most selfless and loving gesture any man could perform.

No, she hadn't turned him into some giant ball of fluffy mush―but she had turned him so upside down that all he could think about was the failed romance they had and how much he would like to go back and rewrite their history together. For now, though, he was okay with the fact that all he would be is another face in the crowd to the very first official concert she has. He had to be okay with it, after all. One of the worst parts of it all, though, was that he knew he was putting through such an excruciatingly horrible heart break. Hurting her went against everything he's ever known.

He put all their times together on a high pedestal in his mind, deeming them worthy to have their own category of happiness. Losing her to the golden state was almost as bad as losing her to death―he often compared the pain to that in his mind, deciding that both scenarios would have an original and unique brand of pain. For one, if she had indeed died, there would be no more sense of buying a god damn plane ticket and jetting off to meet her. There would be no tormenting nights after a day plastered with her happy smiles on the cover of Trish's magazines and talk shows. She would fall out of existence, not just falling out of his life. He would much rather her be alive and thriving in the spotlight while he shriveled up and got lost in the darkness caused by her absence, than for her to never smile, breathe, laugh, cry, joke, and play ever again.

He kept their memories preserved, digging up old cameras filled to the brim with random snapshots of themselves and printing them out to hang on his bedroom walls. Sure, it was a little girly, but he was sure that when it was done her presence would be so strong it would be as if she was right there next to him. It was fun as well, going through the years and years of jubilant experiences they had together. He was brought into a fit of laughing when he discovered the album of their very first time surfing―him standing and gliding with ease, her collapsing off the board when she did a simple paddle. He couldn't bite back smiles when he found their prom pictures, his tie coordinating with her dress just like she had planned to, her genuinely surprised expression in the candid shot of him kissing her cheek as they stepped into the limo. Nothing could ever taint those times, and he was sure to dwell on them before completely cutting the cord―though he doubts he will ever truly be able to.

One day, though, he'll be strong enough to sit down at the computer and respond to the piles of emails she sent him. He'll explain exactly why he did what he did, and how he won't be attending any university when the next fall rolls around, and how the Miami sun can beat down on him with all of its heat, but he'll just never be warm again until she's in his arms. He'll gush over how Dez already has his proposal to Trish planned carefully out―even though he's going to wait another few years to actually pop the question―and how he hasn't given up on that insane pipe dream of becoming an international rock star. He'll hit her with the tough questions like how Los Angles has really been treating her and if she thinks she made the right decision, leaving her home behind for the stars. He'll end it with his usual 'Love, Your Austin' and write some sort of 'p.s.' that lets her know that he's still waiting for his big break, where he can run straight up to her and make sure that the never have to be separated again. Somehow, along with all the insignificant and irrelevant details he'll cram into this legendary email, he'll be sure to include that he's always going to be in love with her.

* * *

a/n: this is the shortest piece I have ever posted for A&A! And my least favorite...theres not even a real plot...but, ya' know, just spent a few late nights writing it so I still wanted to post it. **Disclaimer**. Is everyone looking forward to the **Rocker Awards** as much as I am?

please don't favorite without **review**ing


	2. when we met

.

.

.

_"we pass through the present with our eyes blindfolded. we are permitted merely to sense and guess at what we are actually experiencing. only later when the cloth is untied can we glance at the past and find out what we have experienced and what meaning it has."_

—Nobody Will Laugh by Milan Kundera

.

.

_**then**_

.

.

* * *

Her wide caramel eyes darted to her left and right cautiously as she stepped a sandal clad foot forward hesitantly, the rubber soles sinking into the soft dirt. Her fellow classmates shouted as they ran past her, climbing the monkey bars and swirling down the slides in ecstasy. Her arms wrapped tightly around her chest, she yearned to go back inside to the library and finish the most recent Boxcar Children story she had started. Scanning the school yard for a quiet and lone place she could escape too, her eyes gazed curiously at the gold crown of hair flashing in the sunlight as the boy swung gracefully on the swing set. She analyzed the area for a second more—only the 'golden boy', as she had dubbed him for his blindingly bright hair, was occupying that corner of the playground, and there was one last chain seat directly to his left. Sighing, she faced the ground as she trudged and took her place next to the soaring boy.

"Hi," he said in an all too perky voice, her shy side exuding as she turned her head to face anything but him with a grimace; she had only sat on the swing set for some decent peace and quiet, not to be chatted up by her—she had decided that he somehow belonged to her, even if she didn't even know his proper name—golden boy.

"My names Austin," he persisted, slowing his rapid pace of up forward and backward, "what's yours?"

She looked back to him, her mouth formed in a circle, gapping. His eyes were so livid in the sunlight—the amber brown melting around the swirls of green, creating a dark hazel that still managed to shine as bright as his hair. Fleetingly, she wondered if he was one of the few boys that wasn't infected with cooties.

"I'm Ally," she squawked out, nervously playing with the hem of her floral skirt. The corners of his mouth twitched up in a half smile, his intent gaze not leaving her miniature face. She kept her eyes carefully averted, but she could not—much to her disliking—put a stopper to the heat slowing creeping up her neck to adorn her simpering face.

"Well, Ally," he breathed out, herself admiring how he wasn't one to stutter or stammer with his words, "I can fly higher than you." A small smirk laid upon his face as he took off again, the irritatingly persuasive challenge ringing in her ears.

"No," she stated with force, kicking off herself and finally keeping a steady gaze with his liquid orbs. Suddenly, she realized that his eyes were just as golden as his hair.

"You're just a girl," he threw back, their swings suddenly becoming in sync as they leant back and thrust forward. Coming to the conclusion that her earlier wonderings of his infection with cooties were correct, she left out a spiteful huff and kicked out her legs with all of her young might.

"I'll fly so high, I'll touch the top of that tree!" She vented out, pointing at the branch hanging out from the tree limb—the tree limb that was a good ten feet from her maximum height. She stretched her rather tanned arm out, then the other, and before she could even blink, her face was met with the no longer soft dirt and the scratchy grass. She could hear laughter erupting from behind her as the tears welded up in her eyes, pain radiating from every last inch of her body. She let out a soft wail, perking her head up to see if any teacher had taken notice of her yet—for some odd reason, though, she didn't feel like taking yet another trip to the nurses office. That would mean that she would have to be taken away from Austin and his annoyingly melodic laugh. She let the tears flow as she buried her head back into the ground, confident that no one but golden boy knew what had just happened. Her head spun as the hurt enchanted her whole mind, making everything around her incomprehensible, blurring noise.

_Stupid,_ she thought to herself, _stupid boy with his stupid cooties and stupid dimples. Stupid, stupid, stu–_

"Ally?" he called into her ear as he attempted to flip her over. "Are you okay?"

She giggled lightly at his innocent caring way, wincing as she did so. She rolled over onto her back, those golden eyes of his boring into her with concern laced in along with the traces of green. She tried to sit up, and his puny hand resting on her back as if to act as a guide up. Ignoring the throbbing pain that desperately called for her attention, she suddenly felt uncomfortable showing weakness in front of Austin. A pout rested itself on her lips, her arms crossed pointedly across her chest with an accusing glint in her eyes.

"This is your fault," she murmured out, her glare at him unforgiving and merciless. He held a hand against the nape of his neck, and she felt victorious that she could make him feel so ridden with guilt.

"I'll make it up to you," he answered, eyes averting back to hers with certainty and promise swimming amongst the light.

"And how are you going to do that?" she asked harshly, snubbing him with her slanting nose high and might in the air, eyes closed as she turned to face away from him.

He cupped his chin in his hand momentarily, a look of—what she assumed, at least—concentration evident on his face. Snapping his fingers, he stood excitedly and hopped from one foot to the other.

"I know! I have a juice box that you can have!" He flounced around in utter joy, as if he had just solved all the world's problems. She bit back a smile, wondering what in this world could possibly be better than juice contained in a box. She nodded her head once he looked back to her for confirmation, and then skipped back to the swings she had just fallen off of. She rose slowly and cautiously, taking long strides and fighting back more tears as her left leg shot immense pain up with every step.

He didn't challenge her on soaring again; no, they just swung themselves in different rhythms and patterns, both staying far below the height they had ventured up to earlier. She listened intently to his long rants about how much he loved cookie dough ice cream and how every Sunday, his mom always dragged him along to this thing called 'Church' and he would have to sit still and quiet, not squirm in the too‐fancy attire or even fall back asleep. How Monday night his dad would get home from work early and they would watch a basketball game while eating pizza in front of the TV. How he was just gifted with a brand new superhero coloring book along with a set of 24 sharp and unused crayons and how he was just itching to start his new master pieces. How he loved the sun and its brightness so much that the color yellow had become his favorite, red his second for the trail the sun left behind when it sunk down into the earth for the night. How he loathed all the classes except for music, and how he finally got that toy guitar he had been wishing for—how his parents had been so thoroughly impressed when he successfully tuned it all by himself. She sat back in wonder half the time, thinking over how a boy the same age as her could still contain such a never ending source of energy and have so much to drone on about.

She talked for awhile, too, still adding shy pauses in between unwanted confessions or because she felt as if she shouldn't be allowed to continue on. He insisted that she did, though, and she found little details just as he did to gush over. Like how her mother was in the process of booking herself a trip to Africa to study the behavioral patterns of gorillas, and that she would hopefully leave in a few years time and return with enough information to have her very first book published. How she was reading three whole grades ahead of their level, and how she had never seen anything less than an A on her weekly reports. How she always made sure that her dad packed her pickles for their snack time, and never anything else. How she always had to bring in her special stuffed dolphin—his name Dougie for her love of alliterations—in for nap time if she wanted to fall asleep. How she had gone to New York City with her dad last summer for a business trip, and wound up seeing the Broadway musical, 'The Lion King'. How she had just began to be allowed to dress herself for school and how her love for anything with big, red or yellow flowers on it was growing with no sign of stopping. How every Friday night her mom took her down for a cone of fruity mint swirl at the local ice cream parlor in the mall. Most importantly, though, she raged on about how he had been thriving at the piano and even picking up a bit of every instrument, thanks to her father and their family's music store.

His teacher eventually came around to collect him, and he waved sadly goodbye to her as he joined the half formed single file line of his fellow classmates. She sighed deeply, jumping down from the swing as she decided she would be a bit too alone without her golden boy next to her. Thinking of how wonderful it would be to go back inside and finish up the book she was on, she stumbled her way over to her teacher that stood in a pool of others, happily chatting away as she eyed all the children playing and screaming on the rest of the play ground. His class line walked past her and the teachers, and she watched as the glass doors that led back inside sealed the space between them, his eyes flashing back to her before he disappeared down the stairs. She felt as if they had gone through the world together, even though the only thing he was responsible for in her life was the pounding in her head. A bitter laugh escaped her tightly drawn lips, thinking of how even though he had hurt her—unintentional or not, he was still the cause to the effect—she still wanted to see him. She had never exactly had a friend before—being home schooled up until then, her mother teaching her multiplication tables and her dad the proper way to tune a guitar—and supposed that this was what friendship felt like. As if being separated caused the worlds edges to cave in, blurry and distorted along with the noise it emitted.

She sat on the stone path in front of the doorway, waiting for her teacher to round up her own class. Next was snack time—which was a complete enigma to her; honestly, can you eat in the class room, or not? Why can you only eat at a certain time?—and just as she normally did during recess, she would cut up to the library and most likely help reorganize the bookshelves she could actually reach. A thought accrued to her, dripping with promise and gleaming with hope, as she held her face glumly in her hands. After all, he did still owe her a juice box, and she would be spending her afternoon alone in her practice room at her dads store—what better way to send him the directions to Sonic Boom?

.

.

* * *

.

.

She spun in the black swivel chair, smiling at the school librarians'—Ms. Hempt—words.

"I can call the classroom right now and send the message, if you'd like," the older woman continued on, clicking away at the computer perched on the polished oak desk.

Nodding her head enthusiastically, Ally hopped down off the chair and circled her slender fingers around the arm of one of her most treasured and trusted adult figures. Looking up to her with stars dancing in her lit amber orbs, her mouth curved slightly down with concern.

"What if his mommy says no to him coming?" she asked as her eyes grew wide with wonder. Ms. Hempt shook her head, her dangling pearl earrings swaying back and forth.

"Then you'll just have to wait till tomorrow for your juice box," the nearly grey haired lady replied, lightly tapping the tip of Ally's nose before standing up and opening the closed door to her private office. "Come on, you want me to call, right?" And with that, the younger of the two shot out of the room and hastily bounced on the heels of her feet next to the phone, her silky curls tangling themselves up within each other.

The rest of the school day was moving at too slow of a pace for her liking. The book her beloved teacher read during story time—once she was ushered out of the library and back to her regular old classroom—seemed to drone on forever, and had a bit of a too simplistic and predictable plot line for her liking. Her mind kept traveling forward to the future, where she would sit with her legs crossed on the orange‐red couch in the bottom story of Sonic Boom, sipping sweetly and smugly on whatever flavor of juice the box Austin gave her contained. He would be his reckless self—it didn't take long for anyone to realize he had a certain knack for landing himself in deep water—testing the different demos and CDs her father had carefully programmed into the sound board/speaker system. He would rave about how you could see the entire mall if you stood on your very tippy toes and gazed out the window in the practice room. He would crawl under the counter and dump out all of the guitar picks, reorganizing them into categories of color and maker. It wasn't hard making up scenarios of him frolicking along throughout the store, as he just seemed to click so well everywhere in her mind.

She bolted out of the front doors as soon as the bell rang, grabbing her mother's hand—the elementary was close enough to the mall that her parents didn't see the point in bus transportation of a car ride, so they alternated weeks of walking their little Ally to the store every day after classes were left out—and dragging her down the sidewalk, skipping merrily while cheering about how she finally ditched her shy self and invited someone over for a play date. She breathed out about how he was just made of gold and how when he smiled, she could tell that whatever type of cooties he had, they weren't bad in the least.

Once the bell on the door rang, signaling that it had been opened, her day seemed to begin to clarify and stop blurring together in an endless trance of impatience and tired. His halo seemed to blind her even more this time, and she found it odd how she couldn't stop her feet from carrying her into her arms. She had never hugged anyone besides family before, but this, this was different—she rested her chin on his shoulder for the second they embraced, and he squeezed just a little tightly as soon as his arms encircled her. They didn't notice their mothers shaking hands and giggling over their intertwined selves, or her father pointedly gawking at them from across the room with intensity and prying eyes.

She dragged him up to the practice room immediately, his mom calling out that they would most likely be having dinner at the Dawson house tonight, as long as his dad approved. She had liked the way their moms smiled at each other, as if they had always been the best of friends and shared a sort of sisterhood. To her, it meant that Austin was most likely going to be spending time at her house. His jaw flew to the ground as he took in the antique looking piano in the center of the room, slamming his butt down on the bench and begging her with pleading puppy dog eyes to show him everything she knew. She sat next to him, momentarily forgetting about the juice he had promised her, and placed her fingers over the chipped white and black keys. She showed him first the basics—the chords her dad started her off on, even though he had raved that they were extremely advanced and most young children could barely manage the birthday song. Surprisingly enough, though, Austin was close to fluent with several of the simple chords she taught him after a few short minutes. She played 'Ode to Joy' and 'Twinkle, Twinkle (Little Star)" and absolutely all of the Christmas songs ever known, simply because those were some of the first few she had ever mastered and they held a certain sentimental place in her heart—she wanted Austin to be able to share that with her.

He stumbled with the transitioning during the actual songs but seemed to have lost himself as he practiced longer, herself sitting on the floor with the Grape juice pouring into her mouth from the straw. They switched to the small guitar she also was learning how to play, more of his musical ability shinning through as he played 'Mary had a Little Lamb' without batting an eye. Her father had always made it clear to her that only people truly gifted in the field of music could play so incredibly flawless at her age, and with the way she had already begun to write music to match beats was amazing. Her flute skills were soaring and her clarinet not far behind, and she had always liked being able to pick up any instrument in the downstairs and determine how to play familiar tunes. She had always figured that if she discovered someone with the same uncanny abilities as herself, she would most likely be overcome with jealousy and rage that there was someone out there that was progressing as fast as herself. Only, here with Austin, who just so happened to be a musical prodigy as well, she felt like she had been living her entire life alone.

He wound up going home for dinner with his mom—something about relatives making a surprise appearance and the fact of how short notice it was for the Dawson's. She had spent the night in her room, curtains drawn tight as she fiddled more with the same guitar they had earlier in the night. Her father popped in with a camera, creating what he called a video diary as she smiled up to the lenses and played the same song he had when they were in the practice room. She lay awake tossing and turning late in the night, thinking of how unfair it was that she wasn't in the same class with him and the only time she would be able to see him again was during the short 30 minute span of recess, and on Friday night when he and his parents came over for her mother's famous meatloaf. Once she was able to fall asleep, though, it was to a memory from earlier in the day—he had thumped his hands exhaustedly down onto the keys, running a gruff hand through his hair over the fact he had once again messed up the bridge to 'Jingle Bells'. She had given him the small cardboard box she held in her hand, allowing him to take a sip; and just like that, he smiled, and she smiled back at him, because they were both happy; happy because they found one another, happy because they had one another, happy to be with one another. And really, knowing that tomorrow she would be able to feel that happiness again once they met on those fateful swing sets for the second day in a row was enough to get her through the night.

.

.

.

* * *

**a/n:** so, I don't even know how this happened. all that I know is I had an idea to make this into a chapter piece, switching from 'then' to 'now' and so far, I have lots of ideas. only the 'now' chapters will have some sort of plot flow, while the 'then's might have a tendency to be all over the place. also, seeing as I start school again on the fourth, please don't expect updates all the time from me. **Disclaimer**. **Review.**


	3. when he sang

_going to be gone : chapter three_

_when he sang_

**_now_**

_._

_._

_"should've kissed you there, i should've held your face, i should've watched those eyes, instead of run in place, i should've called you out, i should've said your name, i should've turned around, i should've looked again. but oh, i'm staring at the mess i made, i 'm staring at the mess i made, i 'm staring at the mess i made, as you turn, you take your heart and walk away."_

— the mess I made by : parachute

.

* * *

.

Its funny how different busy schedules can be; she thought that she used to be overwhelmed with pressures that seemed positively never ending with her simple school and work routine. Now, however, that she was getting up a whole hour earlier—she had always been pompous of the fact that she got up and functioned properly at five in the morning, but four was an absolute death sentence—to go to an extensive dance rehearsal, in which she would try not to remember how Austin had held her when they performed dancing numbers together, and how her new tango partner—Blake—had too tight of a grip on her waist or an unstructured stance when he went to boost her for the triple spin. An even bigger task to manage while prancing around in her skin tight leggings and baggy t-shirt: trying to use all the pointers Austin had given her (like how to avoid to stepping on anyone's feet, particularly her own) without really remembering them.

Starting her day off with a granola bar with flying down a highway at illegal speeds was horrendous, especially when she's on her way to do something that involves a lot of her past. Though, next she is often shipped off to the studio while random people with ID lanyards dangling loosely over a black shirt bring her trays and trays of breakfast food, and with the toothy grins she receives as she offers up ideas for the cover designs make her feel somewhat content. She has her very own team that files the paperwork that she hands to them and respects the boundaries that she has strictly set. (She tries not to think of how Team Ally sounds identical Team Austin.)

Most of the time during their morning meetings they discuss fantasies, like all the celebrities that she needs to come in contact with for a collaboration and how they should start recording within the next week. Sometimes they actually get work done, like figuring out that she should most definitely be wearing a white sleeveless shirt with floral patterns on the album cover, or maybe even booking stylist for the impending photo shoot. She really does love the fact that her producer is letting have so much free reign, because one of her main concerns was being bullied into doing something that she doesn't want for her image; she's gained respect from literally everyone and that's more than she could ever wish for.

After she finishes her gourmet breakfast she is whisked off to some sort of promotional bit, like signing autographs at whatever mall or performing an original song at whatever park square. Sometimes she'll fit in an interview—it's such short notice, considering this is only her first week with the glitz and glamour: she's slated for at least fifty next week though, and she's a bit scared because her public speaking isn't exactly classified as eloquent—and the host creates such good banter that she wonders what it would be like to have that kind of banter with Austin there next to her. She quickly stops herself, though, because this is her now and he's only lives in memories.

The rest of the day could be anything from more promotions for her upcoming album, to a lunch that drains her over two hundred and a shopping spree on the boulevard, to hunching over a crowded desk in poor lighting as herself and a coworker poor lyrics out as if there is no tomorrow. Her nights are often spent with whatever girl she can snap up from work, doing each other's nails and hair before hitting whatever party her producer wants her to go to. So far, her latest night was three in the morning and by the time she laid down in her extra plush bed, her alarm blared in her ear.

Keeping busy was a blessing in disguise, albeit, and sometimes she questioned if she could even label it in disguise because she could recognize what it was. A lot of the time when she was able to get back into the apartment complex that she currently inhabited at a reasonable hour, she found herself crying while clutching her old guitar and scribbling ferociously in her old book. She'd been doing such a good job with her whole mission of forgetting, smiling with dimples and laughing with gusto so no person could ever suspect she had been abandoned. A lot of people had even gone as far as complimenting how well she was making the transition to this new speeding lifestyle, and she felt herself flush before shyly replying with an approvable gush and an appropriate thank you. Everything was almost to a point where she could say the words 'happy' or 'nice' or even 'good' and actually mean it.

.

* * *

.

"Are you sure we should be doing this?" Broke the intense silence as Dez swallowed nervously, wishing that the words he had been thinking ever since he had first received the text from his best friend hadn't escaped his loose lips.

A beat passed between the three and Austin didn't respond in anyway besides flinching at the sudden noise. His eyes trained intently out the window as he reminded himself that he wasn't one to cry. The air smelt of mothballs and sun bleached fabrics, and all he could think of was how he wished her lilac and vanilla scent could fill his nostrils so he could be calmed down to some extent by the familiarity of it all; that was one of the worst parts, the wishing.

"No, he knows we shouldn't be doing it," Trish suddenly quipped, and he could feel her hateful and hurtful gaze on his red checkered clad back, "he knows that it'll hurt her and make her cry but he stopped caring about her feelings about five paces back."

He let out a suppressed sigh, tilting his head back in annoyance and willed the voices that continuously came to bother him with their truth to disappear. Those same voices that whispered the words that broke his heart in two, the same voices that never let him forget that he was here and she was there, and that it was all his fault that she was most likely crying every second of everyday whether tears fell or not. They hissed to him his own personal mantra, expressing how he broke her with no regard of what she could have possibly had to say or could have possibly been feeling. They reminded him how he had been vicious and cruel; leaving scars that he promised he would never forcefully or purposely adorn her with. They made him aware of how incredibly selfish he is and how this was the ten millionth time he had ever made her feel unloved and unappreciated.

"Can you pull up the playlist, please?" He asked as his voice grew tired, his eyes wandering delicately over to the pink laptop that sat on top of the lone stool in the corner of the dust consumed room. He scrapped his dull grey flat bottomed sneakers against the faded canvas that covered the flooring, and he idly wondered why he had chosen this room to film the video in; the walls were a cream color tainted with yellow blemishes and the only light provided was coming in through the double panned windows, slick with mold and condensation. There was no furniture besides the stool they had dragged through the house from the front kitchen, and Dez's prized camera carefully perched upon his folding stand. He supposed that the reasoning behind this location was that it would most likely cause her to think twice about him and where in the world he could be, what in the world he could possibly be doing in such a disheveled and vile place. He really did want her to think twice, after all.

_Selfish,_ the voices scolded. He tried his best to ignore them and the stinging they left as they bounced back and forth within his mind, echoing.

Trish moved slowly with mournful glares directed at him, her lower lip curled into a snarl and he makes a mental note to keep a good three feet away from her; he has several fading teeth marks she had gifted him with, and certainly did not want to add more to his growing collection. He spun to face the camera, tugging on the hem of his button down shirt while making sure that enough of his white V-neck t-shirt was visible. He thought of how hard this was, to stand here knowing she was going to see this and most likely be brought to even more tears because of it, and yet he still had no doubts in his mind that he wanted to sing this exact song and post it online.

"The second song down?" Trish questioned as she hunched over the glowing screen, her bronze eyes glimmering with regret and anguish. He momentarily felt a stab of pain for knowing he was putting Trish through stress as well; Trish knew and hated how this was going to affect—gulp—Ally.

"Yeah," he choked out as his eyes darted to the floor, so utterly mortified and disgusted with himself and his actions. Trish responded through her own clipped voice, uttering out a small 'ready', queuing Dez to press play. His ears perked as they were soon met with the familiar tune of one of her favorite songs—he hated that Trish knew it was one of favorites, too; it only made him feel even more sleazy—and he culled in a deep breath before spieling out the first verse. Even Dez had to look away from him—his eyes swimming with remorse—away from the sight that she was going to see.

_Horrible_, the voices reminded him, _you're horrible._

_._

* * *

_._

She laughed lightly as another curl tumbled out of the iron and spiraled down her chest, only two or three more tresses that needed the amplification and perfection that only her temporary stylist, Angela, could deliver. Her makeup was done with a shockingly scandalous glittering black shadow rimming her eyes, her lips a dazzlingly bright red that was sure to draw a few looks. She kicked her grey cotton combat styled boots against each other, agitated and twitching at the impending photo shoot; her first photo shoot.

Angela's glazed ice eyes peered down at her finicky state, and a comfortable smirk snaked itself across her tanned face.

"Don't you know that you can't be anything less than beautiful when you've been styled by me, hon?" She asked with conceit wrapped in every word, and more dry laughter fell from Ally's lips, a tight smile following.

"I think you would like my ex. He had a never ending ego, too."

No one said anything else throughout her pre-camera prep stage, and all the time she wonders when she began referring to him as her ex, because that would have meant that they were together somewhere else rather than her adolescent mind. Though, calling him her friend or even best seemed to be too insignificant and unmeaning of a title.

You can see her belly button under the tied red checkered button down, and she felt as if she was topless with the vast V-neck that was created with nothing even under it—she thinks of how she's losing all of her conservation, with the white shorts that cut off only an inch below her skimpy underwear. Nonetheless she hadn't felt this gorgeous is a while, and for some sweet reason she liked thinking that Austin would see her smiling form on the front of a fashion magazine that Trish skimmed through—she liked thinking that he would drool and ask Trish to take and keep it. She perched herself carefully and skillfully in a tree, just as the director had instructed her too, and faintly wondered in the back of her head when all these big companies found the time to go location hunting.

She—like many before her—used memories to create a more genuine smile. The only problem with that idea was that the only memories she had access to use were the old ones that involved her old life, and unearthing them meant torment later once she found sanctuary and tranquility. Still, she pushed through it and brought back moments of thumb wars during free periods in school and baking days when she refused for the seemingly millionth time of playing video games while pigging out on every brand and type of potato chips known to man.

"You know, you're real," a set assistant that appeared at least three years older than she was—but then again, she could work around that, considering the muscles rippling right through the skin tit shirt; such a stereotypical California guy, she mused to herself—had informed her with grinning lips that she deemed swoon worthy as they sat down next to each other on the back seats of the golf cart.

Laughing slightly while she flirtatiously leant towards him and looked up to his ocean orbs through her thickly coated‐with‐mascara eyelashes, she answered with a "And what exactly does real mean?"

He tilted his body to face her the same way she had done to him, and all she could think of how he wasn't Austin and how his eyes weren't dark or kind enough to be Austin's or how his hair was much too russet colored and straight to be Austin's, until her head began to spin and she reminded herself that she needed to stop wanting Austin, or things to be like Austin.

"I mean that I've seen a million different girls sit in that exact same tree, but none of them go more than skin deep, and it's sad when you can tell that with just a smile. But with you, you can see truth and life in your smile, and you automatically know that you've lived through stories worth telling and memories worth remembering."

She looked down and bit her lip, smiling widely but wanting not to give him the satisfaction of knowing the elation he was filling her with.

"Oh god, I'm sorry. To poetic for you?" He suddenly laid a hand on her arm that was propped on the space above their designated back rest, and she was taken aback with the genuineness flowing through his words and vainly wondered if this was him being sarcastic; though his earnest eyes told her that he was sincere.

"No," she giggled as she brought her head back up and met his azure—she could have sworn the last time she saw them they were more of a sea foam—eyes with her own amber orbs, "I'm just used to the guys that burp and fart and think saying 'babe' is the most romantic and charming thing in the world."

He chuckles slightly in response—it's not nearly as melodic as Austin's, but its pretty close and somewhere between reminding herself to breathe and blink her stomach rolls over itself the same way it used to around Austin—before tucking the bangs that were clouding her vision behind her ear and answers, "You've been hanging around the wrong guys then."

They continue with banter revolving around her new life here in California and his über important job as the design artist's assistant—or, as he puts it, the coffee lackey. The cart comes to a stop in the middle of a clearing as she finishes putting the last digit of her number under the new contact labeled 'Ally'. The rest of the photo shoot she doesn't have to harass herself with memories, but simply look over to Eric, her first official friend in California; and it's kind of nice having him smile back at her with those resplendent eyes of his. She likes thinking that she isn't alone anymore, with all those coworkers of hers that resemble more of servants and boring gossiping daughters of higher-up producers. Eric was real, just like she was—and for once, she needed a friend who could be poetic and real.

After two more hours of non-stop smiling while lying in a bed of pillows, gliding docilely back and forth on a swing set, striking different poses in front of a black back drop and a fan blowing her hair crazily, and even blowing bubbles in a pure yellow room, she was told to sit and answer a few questions so they could have their top notch writers create three and a half pages about her, her old life, and her big debut.

She explained every answer in depth, and within a half hour the interviewer stood up and wrapped her shaking and gangly arms around her neck, thanking her for being cooperative and truthful. The next thing she knew she was sitting back in her regular studio at the record label, shoving piles of Chinese food in her face as more of those pushover coworkers threw lines of possible lyrics at her and they concluded on using a simple four-four guitar chord progression for the first verse and pre-chorus.

She felt as if she had ran a marathon by the time she had slumped herself on her bed, and her phone made the same infernal beeping noise it did all day—signaling she had received yet another text, most likely demanding something else from herself or suggesting another bit for a song or even reminding her of another big event tomorrow would consist of. She clicked on the screen about ready to scream or even punch someone out, only for her face to be consumed by a smile once she saw who had actually sent the message; her new and only friend, Eric. For a second, she allowed herself to be nostalgic and thought of how she used to smile every time she received a text from Austin.

She suppressed child-like giggles as she bit back a smitten smile, replying with quick hands as she answered his conversational question 'what's up'? Clicking the lock button and throwing the phone above her head on the bed, she gazed at the ceiling while pondering over if this feeling—this feeling of clean clothes fresh out of the wash, the feeling of the new episode of your favorite show, the feeling of your first day for anything; something new and something worth getting excited over—and how long it would stay with her.

Seconds later, another chime rang through the air and she momentarily thought of how fast a typer he must be, but then she unlocks her phone and realizes that the sound emitted was a signal for a new online post of an extremely familiar pop star. The cover clad phone made a harsh crashing noise as it abruptly came in contact with the unbearably cold hard wood floor, and with shaking hands she sank down to the floor and clicked on the link leading her too his latest video update. She immediately blinked back the forever present tears at the sight of his face caught in a freeze frame, and once she had regretfully pressed play with hesitation his voice rang through the air clear as a bell and she thought of how he should be sitting next to her.

"Hey, it's Austin," he breathed out and she couldn't help but notice the way his eyes consisted of no life, a sheepish glint slightly playing in them instead, "and I'm not really sure what I'm doing, but still, you're going to hear a song. But first, I really just have to say I'm sorry. I am. So sorry."

By now sobs are escaping her at a remarkable rate and she can feel him staring into her soul, seeing her for who she really is and who she really wants to be and what she's pretending to be. He's seeing her all the way from Miami, and he's masking so many emotions but so is she so it's sort of, kind of okay because both of them are at a loss for anything other than lyrics and tears; she's learned to be okay with that, really. The only thing she had never learned to be okay with or mentally prepared herself for was him apologizing, because anything he would be apologizing for took place in a past life that only consisted of blurry smiles and warmth; just so much warmth.

"Anyway, it's not an original, because, well, she's gone. And I let her go." He's being raw and real and she's never been there for a performance quite like this, and all she can think of is how she really wants to be. He starts singing to one of her favorite songs, and his face contorts in obvious suffering and she wonders how awful of a person it takes to mutilate a person's heart the way she did with him. She vacantly thinks for less an a second that her neighbors are most likely calling the land lord with complaints of noise, but her wailing can't be prevented because this is her being _real_, and in real life she's in pain and crying and missing.

"I'm sorry," he utters right after he finishes the last note and then the camera fades to black, and the next thing she knows she's pleading at the screen to give her something more to hold onto, and thinks of how dangerously addictive loving someone in every single way possible can be. She throws the phone against the wall and sinks her head in between her knees, praying that time could wash away memories and help her forget because she has nothing that she wants to remember.

After a few minutes pass she can't think of a time she wasn't on the floor being crippled and broken, and then she hears the melodic voice she had been listening to not five minutes ago only in a much more chipper tone and to a song she had written. She scrambles to pick up her overly abused phone, and clear as a blue sky, she sees his contact ID picture playing over the screen in a request for a video chat. She wipes the corner of her eyes and hesitantly answers, and while it's connecting them she falls back down onto the floor because she knows her knees are about to go weak and wobbly.

"Hey," he breaks the silence with, bravery showing even with his checks stained with the trails of tears.

"Hey," she answers with a light laugh because it's all she can muster and she still finds a way for him to be the highlight of her day despite everything else going on between them. She decides she doesn't have the time to waste on pretending to be brave, and let's a few more good natured tears fall over her eyelashes and waits for him t say something else, because she barely got out the greeting without vomiting.

...

* * *

a/n: hello again my favorite people :) here is your chapter three, and yes, chapter five (seeing as it will be the next chapter taking place in present time) will be picking up somewhere close to where we just left off. Somebody better grab some napkins, 'cause this story is getting juicy :)'

I am a **disclaimer**, seeing as Auslly isn't happening officially and, well, I'm writing fanfiction on a dinasour laptop and not a script on some fancy Disney magic machine.

I have decided to start dedicating fic, chapters, whatever to people because I like giving people shoutouts, I guess you could say :)' this lovely bit goes to WorthyPurpleCrayon because she is hilariously awesome, and an extremely talented chica.


End file.
